


Delicate Times

by Fabrisse



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:46:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabrisse/pseuds/Fabrisse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David has come to the city to learn.  Richard has come to make his name.  This is how they meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. David Alexander Tielman Campion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Campion goes to the city.

His beloved sister had betrayed him, left him to the punishment cell, but this time the horse was here and the packs with provisions -- enough for the first night or two. By then, he'd be close enough to bigger towns that he could buy food and blend into the safety of the crowds. David Alexander Tielman Campion thought his grandmother had sent enough money to last for a further six days on the road so long as he was careful. He wasn't quite certain how far away the city was, but eight days seemed adequate.

***  
His grandmother's house was… exquisite. Davey had never had occasion to use that word before, but seeing the Ducal residence on the hill, he felt as if he understood it. Some of the other houses were more magnificent, but they seemed overdone. Some were more detailed or had larger gardens or greater carriageways, but none seemed to fit their setting as if grown there and tamed as Tremontaine's house did.

The interior, well! Once he'd convinced the major domo that he didn't need to go around to the servants' entrance and that his horse did need a groom, he'd been taken to a small feminine study. He assumed since there was one wall floor to high ceiling filled with books that it doubled as the library and while he waited he perused the titles, running his fingers along the gilt spines, savoring the soft caress of leather under his hand. Davey finally chose one title which proved to be a collection of stories and legends from Arkenvelt and sat gracelessly on the sofa reading. Someone brought in a tray and accoutrements for chocolate, but Davey had never been allowed to have it at home and was wary about preparing it wrong and seeming gauche.

Diane, Duchess of Tremontaine, entered an hour later to find him sprawled on the floor with two other books of regional tales opened apparently making a comparison among all three. "Have you found anything of interest, child?"

Davey sprang up, careful of the precious books, trying not to show the insult of having been called a child. He made his best formal bow, hoping that it was adequate for the delicate woman before him. He had to swallow twice before he found his voice. "Yes, madam, I noticed that while the tale of the mouse is similar in all three regions, the difference in the details makes the moral more ambiguous in the one from the north."

Diane indicated a chair and seated herself at her desk. Long habit let her find the shaft of sunlight which both warmed her and set off her hair best and she quelled a smile at her grandson's pedantry. "Which do you think came first then?"

"I'm not certain. The Arkenvelt one possibly. It seems to hold more details, and the ambiguity could reflect actual instruction in morals by asking the audience to think about consequences."

She inclined her head. "Well reasoned. You have an inclination toward scholarship, then? No wonder you want to attend the university."

"I know I always wanted more books. To have a library like this," his gesture spanned the wall, "was beyond my imagining."

Diane laughed gently, not wanting to offend her young relative. "David, may I call you David?" He nodded, and she continued, "This isn't the library. I keep only a few of my most loved works in here. Would you like to see the library?"

Once again, he nodded mutely. She rose and offered him her hand and led him to a vast room, paneled in rich woods with bookcases set in and arcade with more books on the second level.

"Most of the cases are on hinges. Their backs and the walls behind them are also filled with books." She watched him closely, gauging his reaction, seeing his joy, and noting his wariness.

A servant came in with a fresh chocolate tray and scones. Diane said, "As you're a guest…" and began preparing a cup for him before preparing her own.

"A messenger came from your father two days ago. He thought you might turn up here."

Davey froze. "I don't want to go back. They married off Janine like she was a prized sow. I know he wants me to be a farmer to use me as some country bargaining chip."

"There's no dishonor in hard work. And running the estate is _hardly_ farming."

"Does hard work have to be physical? I'm not afraid of it. I'm capable of it. But I'm smart. Smarter than he is. Cartography is not an exact science or even a good application of philosophy. Already, I keep the books for him, order the stores and supplies, bargain because I'm good at it. My father would keep me at that, take me from the few books I have, to stare at the hindquarters of a mule because he doesn't understand my type of learning."

"And were I to keep you? Right now, you're hardly decorative, and I only have your estimate of your intelligence, David."

"Then test me. Allow me the chance, Grandmo… Grandame, and I'll make myself an ornament. Why else send me the money to come here?"

"Amusement. A test." She sipped her chocolate and contemplated his offer. Diane saw him do his best to emulate her manners -- not that his were poor considering he was a country relative. She nodded. "You have a bargain, my boy."

***  
Diane de Tremontaine looked over the reports which had been submitted. Her grandson was nearly as smart as he thought he was. She shook her head at herself. It was an unfair assessment. He was exceedingly intelligent, but his father had kept him in ignorance. A year of study should bring him up to the level of other boys his age who lived on the Hill. A year or so beyond that, and she could send him to study at the university -- let him sow the wild oats he was obviously so full of -- fulfill the promise implicit in sending him travel expenses. 

She outlined a course of study in a neat hand. Natural philosophy and mathematics were both his weakest areas and greatest loves; for those, he would have tutors. She would have him sit at the Council meetings once or twice a week while they were in session and expect a monthly report on the strategies, laws, and alliances at work. A list of books for him to read was on the second sheet: philosophy in a suggested order, not that she expected him to follow it, and a third sheet listed novels which he could read in any order he chose, but which would mark him as part of the Hill.

Clothes seemed to be a way to reward him. He admired pretty fabrics and soft things near his skin. One outfit was in grey velvet with pale blue satin on the linings to be seen through the slashes that were currently so fashionable for men; it was for formal parties where the people too young to be in society were invited. The pale colors would indicate he was not yet finished enough to participate in the Season. One -- no two -- relatively somber suits to wear to Council and other official places in the town, and two outfits for the schoolroom and grounds of the house would complete his wardrobe. The tip of her quill tapped her chin as she thought. A heavy cloak, gloves, a formal mask for evening wear in the rougher parts of town and at least two extra vests to be worn with the city suits or the schoolroom clothes on the coldest days would complete the externals. Diane decided to allow him a choice of colors on the other suits, with her final say, and to allow him five woollen shirts and ten linen in the colors of his choosing to appease his sense of style. 

Diane reviewed the three instructional pages she'd written. There was free time for him to walk or go to patisseries. They'd agreed upon an allowance. Yet something was missing. She glanced out the window at the formal garden with its quadrille of the muses and laughed. Picking up the first sheet, she added two blocks of two hours and wrote, "dancing."

***  
He was getting used to his grandmother's demands on his brain. Politics bored him as he saw it being played in the Council chambers. The titled Councillors held huge amounts of responsibility, but all he saw in that chamber were all the things that circumscribed their power. Frankly, the books of political philosophy the Duchess had recommended to him were useless where the chains of history and the fears of rebellion weighed so heavily.

The politics of the parlor, the game the Duchess played, was far more interesting. He knew she used sex, the promise of it if not the fact of it, as a bargaining tool. His one attempt to ask her about the hows and whys had led to a great deal of laughter on her part and an account at a reputable brothel. She put limits on it -- no one more than twice in a row, explore one vice at a time -- but she also told him that the madame of the establishment had instructions to teach him how to make love well. He believed he was passing those tests as well as he passed his natural philosophy studies.

He'd be at university soon. No later than the following autumn. There he could choose his coterie, his course of study, and choose his own lovers. He sipped at the chocolate and ate a small piece of brioche to tide him through the afternoon's session. He resolved that it was time to start growing his hair.


	2. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard's back story.

His mother was gone. There was nothing he could do about that. Death came to everyone and violent death was too often the lot of those who plied their trade at inns.

The innkeeper had helped him sell her clothes and the little trinkets she collected, all but one. Richard knew that it was a fine piece and would probably bring more than all the rest put together, but the delicate traceries worked into the circle of the brooch had caught his eye since he was a child. He liked to think his father had given it to her. In truth, he thought it was the young man who'd ruined her long before his father had left his seed to grow inside her.

Jewelry was dangerous for a swordsman, even a swordsman to be, but the brooch could be stuck on a hat left to one side during a fight. For now, he pinned it to the inside of his hat, the one old Sam had given him, the bar hidden by the ribbon. He finished his pack and lay it on the straw, he unfurled the two blankets and fell asleep between them, his head resting on his pack. He would need to leave early in the morning to make to the next town by nightfall.

***  
Richard's childhood had not been unhappy. His mother adored him, cherished him, kept him by her side. When he was four, he was already putting hay into the inn's mangers for the horses that arrived. Sam, the innkeeper, let him and his mother have the smallest room for his work and her charms. If the inn were full, they'd sleep on a pallet by the fire. 

Richard had to lift on tiptoe to reach the mangers in those days, but he never lost his balance. When he was six he began running messages for the innkeeper all over town. He helped in the kitchens when there were large groups or served in the private dining room when the gentlefolk paid extra for privacy. He never slipped, and he never spilled. 

And old Sam noticed. He also noticed that Richard might not be good with words, his reading was minimal and his speech shy, but he loved the stories Meggie in the kitchens would read to him at night after their shift was over: stories of swordsmen and their patrons. Most of it was romantic twaddle, but Richard paid attention to the descriptions of the fights, not the love stories, and Sam went to speak to his mother.

From the time he was seven until his mother died when he was eleven, Richard trained with old Sam. 

"I's one of the lucky ones, lad. Never had a fight to the death called on me patron in the city. Mostly did little first blood fights and weddings. I was never the favorite of the hill, but I was good enough to be a country house swordsman for a year or two before the fight that lost me my leg. My only fight to the death, and I won it. My patron was a decent bloke. Let me stay until I was well enough to move and gave me a bonus for winning. Enough to buy this place off the one before me who'd been bad at business."

Richard only understood half of it, at best, but he knew he'd do anything to be a swordsman. Sam taught him simple combinations, using his chores as a way to train his muscles. Getting chestnuts out of the fire in autumn without burning his fingers was one. Carrying the water without using the yoke was another, even chopping kindling was a way to strengthen his body, hone his precision. Sam also drilled him in basic footwork, calling combinations when the inn was empty -- usually between breakfast and lunch -- and expecting Richard to do it right then, no matter what he might be carrying.

His mother's death, an accident during a brawl that had broken out when Richard slapped a patron's face for doing more than grope him, sped up Sam's plans.

"You're strong enough to walk the twenty mile to Fer-de-Lance. Give this note," he indicated the one with green wax, "to Robbie at the Goose and Gander. He'll give you chores for a few days and a bed to warm you. Practice your combinations when you gets a chance. At the end of a week, he's supposed to give you a day off and thirty minnows. Any tips you get are your own, lad. Three weeks there should be enough for you to walk to the Silver Wolf in Swanstown. That's thirty mile again, right at the edge of Tremontaine's duchy. Snowy," he held up the note with plain wax, "will give you a bed near the fire, there, and introduce you to Lucas Forsythe." The last letter, the big one with black wax was held up. "He'll test you on everything I've been teaching you. If he thinks you're any good, he'll train you in return for your working as his servant. If he don't, well, Snowy can always use a decent ostler. Do you understand me, lad?"

Richard nodded. "I don't have anything to have her buried. I have nothing to repay you."

"I'll make sure your mam's buried decent. I'll keep the receipt, and, if I hear great things of a swordsman called Richard St. Vier, I'll send it to you then."

Richard's eyes welled with tears, but he blinked them back as any boy of eleven would, afraid of being thought unmanly. He hugged old Sam, and if Sam felt his collar getting a bit damp, well, that could be kept secret between him and the lad.

***  
Lucas Forsythe had worked as house swordsman to the Lindleys when Talbot held the Raven Chancellor's chair. He read the note sent to him by Old Sam and looked at the lad who'd brought it.

"Ye're small. How old?"

"'Leven, sir."

"No need to call me that. If I take you on, you'll be callin' me 'Master' an' if I don't, you got no need to call me anythin'. Stand still."

Richard remembered the training Snowy had given him and consciously relaxed everything tense in his body. He thought he caught the ghost of a smile from Master Forsythe, but he stood without fidgeting even when Forsythe went behind his back. It made his shoulder blades itch, but he held firm. 

Forsythe came back to his front and let the smile actually appear when he saw that Richard's eyes were following him. "A week. I'll give you a week of training. If you follow my instructions, I'll take you on as a student. Do you want to be a swordsman?"

"Yes, Master Forsythe. I do."

"It's not all glamor. It's hard work and blood. We rarely get to eat with our patrons. We're an ornament, a deadly one, and your friend Sam and I were among the very few of our generation to live to see forty much less old age."

"I have no one left. This is an honest trade, and old Sam thought I had the talent for it. It will get me a living and that's all I care about."

"Have you held a sword?"

"No, Master."

Forsythe crossed the room and pulled out a practice sword. The pomel was smaller than average, but he judged it right for the boy's hand. The sword itself was bated, of average weight and length, a good workaday implement. He bent the boy's hands and arm into an approximation of the correct grip and a parry trois line. "Can you read the clock, boy?"

"Aye. It's half the hour."

"I want you to hold the pose for ten minutes by the clock. You may rest after that." He walked out of the room, but went into a small cabinet which had a view of it. At the end of ten minutes -- and the boy had remained remarkably still -- Forsythe saw the boy change hand and approximate the stance with fair accuracy on his left side. He held the pose for an additional ten minutes.

Forsythe nodded. Old Sam knew a good prospect it seemed.

***  
For the next four years, Forsythe trained him two hours a day, six days a week, barring feast days. Richard was expected to practice for two hours, too -- one on festival days. He did other duties for Forsythe and earned money at Snowy's looking after horses on busy days.

When Richard won the practice bouts against his master five days running, Forsythe sent out runners to other towns with retired swordsmen. Richard was set against their pupils and then against the men themselves, learning other styles, perfecting his own. 

It took a year of honing before Forsythe told him he was ready. He gave Richard a suit of fine clothes, making sure he understood how to make his clothes fine without lace on his cuffs or cutwork to catch the point of a sword, showed him how to instruct a tailor on the correct way to double layer a vest. It wouldn't prevent a direct stab, but it could deflect a shallower cut, and a good swordsman used every advantage he could.

At last, in a suit of fine wool with good linen under it and his silver brooch on the outside of his hat. Richard St Vier bought a ticket for an outside seat on the coach to the city.


	3. The City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally meet.

The room he found was cheap, but not cheap enough for him to stay much longer without some sort of work. He began his days with the stretches old Sam had taught him, then went through the sword drills of Master Forsythe. Last of all, he performed the speed and accuracy drills he'd devised for himself. Then he had a quick wash in the pitcher of warm water he paid a minnow a day for before he went out to walk the streets of Riverside. 

Several young tavern women had tried to flirt with him, but he'd never learned the steps to that particular exercise. There was one, a girl called Jessamyn, who told him where the swordsmen gathered. They would exhibit against each other near a square between the residential part of the hill and the Council chambers. Richard learned a great deal watching the bouts.

He had no time to tarry and watch on this day. He'd asked around and found a reputable salle. Richard intended to ask the teacher for work in return for an opportunity to practice with him. If he gained enough to keep his room, that was all to the better.

***  
His grandmother still insisted on calling him David, but he'd been Alec for over two years now. The first year he had been a brilliant intellectual leader. The professors fought to have him among their coterie rather than just attending their lectures. The second year, though, he'd discovered the joys of poppy and ergot. His studies suffered -- not as much as his grandmother thought -- and his subsequent papers weren't even opened by the professors. 

She'd called him peremptorily to the hill and given him an ultimatum. Come home and make a good match within two seasons or be cut off without an allowance. He'd chosen the latter and picked up a few bibelots to pawn on his way out.

Alec knew as an article of faith that the studies he was pursuing were right, higher than philosophy, more precise than math. The heavens moved and sang. 

He trudged down the hill back to Riverside and bumped into a young man going in the opposite direction. Alec marked him down as a country boy the moment he'd begun to apologize rather than slanging Alec for not watching his own feet.

"It's entirely my fault," Alec said, "Truly. May I buy you a chocolate to compensate you?"

The other man's eyes caught his and Alec thought he could fall into paradise from his gaze. The other bit his lip and said, "I… I would like that, but I have something I _must_ do right now. Would it be possible… I could meet you later. Here where the swordsmen gather."

"And are you a swordsman, little one? Are you a good one?"

"I am." He lowered his voice so none could overhear. "I'm better than this lot."

Alec glanced over to see who was fighting and noticed that it was two of the darlings of the hill. "Your name, please, my great little swordsman."

The other man's cheeks burned hot. "I know when I'm being made fun of, sir."

"Never call me 'sir.' And I intended only gentle teasing. Ask around about Alec Campion in Riverside and they'll tell you my tongue can peel paint when I'm actually making fun of someone." He thought he might faint when the young man bit his lip again; the gesture was so artlessly sensual.

"I'm Richard St. Vier. How do I address you? Mister, Doctor?"

"You call me 'Alec,' Richard, And agree to meet me here in an hour's time."

"Add half an hour to that? Please, Alec?"

"I shall." He pointed to a small chocolatier. "I'll be at a table there, reading or watching the bouts."

"Thank you." Richard smiled like the sun breaking through and ran off on his errand.

***  
About ten minutes before Richard was due to join him, one of the young men of the hill, Arthur Fitz-Levi, blocked the sun on his book.

"You're Tremontaine's, aren't you?"

"Not to hear grandmother tell it."

Fitz-Levi sat in the chair next to Alec and ordered a large pot of chocolate and two brioche.

"I'm waiting for someone, actually."

"Fine." He called the waiter back and requested a third cup and another brioche.

"I should probably say 'thank you.'"

Fitz-Levi chuckled. "Didn't think you knew the phrase."

"Why are you seeking my company?"

"You're still at university, living in Riverside, right?"

"Spit it out."

"My parents offered for Ferris' younger sister without my knowledge. I put my foot down. I want to marry a girl who doesn't see two of me."

Alec said, "Her dowry is insecure as well. Her brother has mortgages on both the properties."

Fitz-Levi gave a low whistle. "Wish I'd known that when I was arguing with my parents. Still, they agreed, especially since Rosamund Godwin's parents approached them. The land she'd bring would have a good living, and it borders our estates directly. Then there's the actual money…"

"Yes, yes, the mercenary business…" Alec's face lit up as he waved Richard over to the table. "My deepest apologies, Richard." He narrowed his eyes at his tablemate. Fitz-Levi was looking at Richard like a helping of his favorite dessert. "No, Arthur. You won't get my help unless you put your eyes back in your head."

"Sorry, Alec."

"Richard, this is Arthur Fitz-Levi. He provided the bread and chocolate, but you've no need to thank him, he did it for a favor."

"Thank you, Mister Fitz-Levi."

"Pretty manners, too. Alec didn't mention your surname."

"St. Vier."

"Well, then Richard St. Vier, come help us with my problem." He motioned to the third seat.

"I take it Ferris challenged you?"

"Yes. And then, rather than using his house sword, he hired Egbert."

Richard said, "He's the one in the grey-green suit?"

"Yes, my dear," Fitz-Levi said, "And he's known as the executioner."

"You're the challenger. Set the terms at first blood."

"I can't. The challenge he issued did not just insult me or my family, he brought Rosamund and the Godwin's into it. I can't marry her unless I win the challenge, and they will have the terms set at death."

"Their house sword is a sot. Your house sword didn't sign on for duels to the death…"

Richard said, "I'll do it. I assume I get paid if I live."

Fitz-Levi's jaw dropped, and Campion's smile turned dreamy.

Alec said, "Have you fought anyone to the death?"

"No. But my master said it was the quickest way to make my name."

"It's also the quickest way to die," Alec said. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen. I've attained my majority."

Fitz-Levi said, "Are you sure you can do it?"

"You haven't answered my question about pay?"

Alec laughed and one of the swordsmen in the bout looked away and had his shirt slashed by his opponent.

"You there." The man whose shirt had been cut turned on Alec. "What call do you have to distract a swordsman."

Before Alec could answer, Richard said, "He merely laughed at my sally."

"I've seen you 'round here, watchin'. Never daring to actually use your tool."

Some of the coarser swordsmen laughed at the remark. Richard stood and doffed his hat. "Watch this for me, Alec?"

"Certainly."

"I'll be happy to accommodate you…"

"Peter Hunt. I promise you I'll draw blood."

Richard just nodded and removed his jacket. He walked to the informal ring where they bouted and gave the salute. Hunt returned it and went into a standard defensive line in parry six. The whole bout lasted less than a minute. Richard had drawn blood on both shoulders.

Hunt stared at him and Richard said, "You leave them open. Your sword's just a fraction too low in octave."

He walked back to the table and put on his jacket and hat.

"How murderously beautiful," Alec said. "Arthur, you must answer his question about payment."

"It will look good for me to have a young man as my sword. Twenty livres."

Alec raised an eyebrow and held up his hand to prevent Richard from speaking. "For a fight to the death? You can do better than that, Arthur."

"Thirty."

"Fifty," Alec said, "and he'll need ten in advance for a proper suit. I assume the bout will be an evening affair, a break in a musicale?"

"Yes, it's in three nights." He opened his purse and handed Richard fifteen livres. "Ten is for the suit. They'll charge more as it needs to be made up fast. The other five are for you to make arrangements in the event we lose. You'll dine at the table with us…"

"Below the salt, of course," Alec added.

Fitz-Levi continued, "dine with us after the bout."

"It's in your gardens?" Alec asked.

"No, we're dining at the Godwins."

"Yes." Alec stood up and kissed Richard full on the mouth. "Meet me for supper at eight. Someone can show you to the Blind Cat."

"Yes, Alec."

"Fitz-Levi, take him to a tailor and make certain he doesn't pick out Lord Ferris' house colors by mistake. I'll see you here tomorrow for luncheon?"

"Yes, Alec." Fitz-Levi said. He paid for the chocolate and began to rise. 

"If it's all right, Mister Fitz-Levi, I haven't eaten."

Fitz-Levi sat back down. He motioned to a runner and made arrangements to visit the tailor in an hour.

***  
He walked into his grandmother's study without announcement. Diane raised an eyebrow, allowed him to sit, and didn't say one word while he filled her in on the complex relations among Ferris, Arthur Fitz-Levi, and the Godwins.

Wordlessly, she handed him ten livres for the information.

Alec left the bibelots behind this time.

***  
There was music coming from the room above. While it wasn't cold, the night had turned chilly and Richard left his sleeves on, even as he warmed his muscles until he heard the nobility coming out on the terrace. Egbert had waited in the kitchen which Richard thought a mistake. The chill would work against him.

The nobles came out onto the terrace, the gentlemen helping the ladies with their shawls in little intimate touches. He removed his sleeves and loosened the lacing on his shoulders to ensure he had full movement. Egbert went out when his name was announced,still with his full jacket. 

Richard's name was announced, but there was no cheer for it as there had been for Egbert. No one knew Richard St. Vier. He bowed to the terrace as he'd seen Egbert do.

From the terrace a young, feminine voice said, "But he's so young. What tragedy should he be killed." She was shushed by those around her. 

The major domo began reading the terms of the challenge and Richard blenched. No wonder the Godwins and Fitz-Levis had been so adamant that the insult required blood to wash clean. The major domo confirmed with Arthur Fitz-Levi, not his father, that the duel would be to the death. Arthur's voice did not falter as he said yes. Both swordsmen saluted the families which had called on their services, then saluted the terrace. Alec had instructed Richard on what to do.

They were told to stand ten feet apart. Richard had walked the courtyard while the nobility and gentry were indoors and he went to stand where his footing would be best. His back would be to the terrace, but he thought keeping upright was more important than keeping up appearances.

Every single lesson flooded back to him as he watched Egbert remove his jacket. He rested easy while Egbert bounced on his toes and rippled his muscles. Those moments gave him some idea of possible openings, depending upon the man's technique. 

Finally, Egbert smiled cockily up at the terrace and called, "En garde."

Richard watched his eyes, let him make the first move. Egbert's ripostes were sure, and he varied his line admirably. By the second flurry of swords, Richard saw that his opponent would vary his line even when it wasn't required and that in trois he pulled his arm too close to his body. The next section lasted longer and Richard moved to a different part of the courtyard to counter. He saw part of what Egbert was trying to do. In their new positions, a feint/parry/riposte in sixte would look spectacular. He knew from Alec that Egbert had killed opponents before. He'd been somewhat surprised that Alec knew enough about swordsmanship to tell him that he always went for the kill in sixte.

It was over quickly then. Richard forced him out of sixte to quarte and then to trois. The way Egbert moved his torso gave him a clear line in une. He made it quick, straight to Egbert's heart; the man was carrion before he'd hit the ground.

There was a deep gasp from the crowd on the terrace. Richard had forgotten about them, but he remembered Alec's tutelage and saluted them. Another woman's voice said, "Doesn't he look just like Fabian?"

Now came the hard part. Now he had to dine with them.

***  
Alec was waiting at the square where during the day the unemployed swordsmen bouted.

"I assume the conversation was dreary," he said.

Richard nodded. "I didn't know how to answer their questions. They were very impertinent."

"The nobility often is." Alec handed him a large purse. 

"This is more than the five livres I left with you."

"It's one hundred twenty five. The odds on you were 25 to 1. You can repay your Sam and your Snowy and your Master Forsythe and still have enough to rent a fine room for a year and have enough to eat. It'll probably even cover your laundry fees, since there probably won't be too many blood stains to clean."

"But…"

"You should get yourself a second good suit. It would be gauche to wear the same thing twice. You probably already had offers."

Richard blushed. "I did. Three different young women asked me to be their wedding swordsmen. I said I couldn't do weddings. Oh, and some man wanted me to kill a woman, but that seemed wrong, so I said no."

"Good. Your first -- no second, you still need that suit -- order of business is to learn exactly who can hire you and upon whom they can set you. It's a privilege of nobility, well, other than for weddings. Then…"

"Alec?"

"Yes? 

"Can we walk back to Riverside?"

"Of course. As I was saying…"

"Alec?"

"Yes."

"Will you kiss me?"


End file.
